


They Say He's a Wild One

by thegrumblingirl



Series: With Pleasure, M. With Pleasure. [1]
Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: But with a happy ending, M/M, a dash of angst, idiots being idiots, now with elevated rating due to things happening, wow this story zipped through my brain like a balloon let loose at a garden party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 04:12:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrumblingirl/pseuds/thegrumblingirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even so, it came as a bit of a shock when Mallory made it clear that dying wasn't his purpose either, and that he'd personally send him on a long, <em>relaxing</em> vacation if he dared to be this reckless again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Right, so this is something I cooked up when Inkie started yelling at me about M and Bond being adorable idiots while she was reading the novels. This is a teaser -- there could be more! Please tell me if you'd like to see this continued; comments of any kind are always welcome.

Everyone thought that James had trouble calling Mallory 'M' because the man's predecessor had been so (in the end, fatally) important to him -- they weren't wrong. She'd been the mother he'd lost so young, and he'd been the son she'd never had.

And yet, that wasn't the only problem.

The other, increasingly important, reason was that calling someone who he had about two honourable intentions left for by a name with irrevocable parental connotations felt wrong on so many levels that James conveniently forgot to count.

He probably should have realised that the day he actually did write his will and on a whim decided that, upon his presumably untimely death, that blasted desk ornament M had left him should bark at Mallory as it saw fit. It took him a couple of more months, two bullet holes in his left leg, and a stint in Medical to notice that he’d given the one thing with emotional value he possessed away not because it belonged in that office, but because he wanted _him_ to have it.

James wasn’t in the habit of denying himself an attraction, or a connection with someone. Each of the men and women he met on his missions, all the people who played the same game he did or got dragged into it and still fought, lost, and died beside him; each of them he valued for their own sakes and entirely. He killed because it was part of his job description, but it wasn’t his purpose, and he mourned each pointless death.

Even so, Mallory wasn’t just another agent or an accomplice or a defector who had to be snatched up in a split-second decision. (He was a man who appreciated strategy. Focus.)

Even so, it came as a bit of a shock when Mallory made it clear that dying wasn't his purpose either, and that he'd personally send him on a long, _relaxing_ vacation if he dared to be this reckless again.

(It did make James wonder.)

* * *

Mallory wasn’t at the office when he got the call, he was at the Home Office.

“Moneypenny, what is it? The meeting just finished, I’ll be back at Whitehall in about half an hour.”

“Sir, it’s...” Mallory heard an unsteady breath over the line and frowned. It wasn’t like Eve to falter like this, to hesitate, except — except where it concerned Bond. Killing the man could do that to someone, his mind supplied half-jokingly. That was when the thought properly registered with him. A sudden feeling of dread came crawling up underneath the collar of his shirt.

“What happened?” he demanded, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.

“007’s mission was compromised. He was shot,” came the succinct reply, Moneypenny instinctively using his orders to anchor herself.

All the colour must have left his face when his suspicions (he would long refuse to call them fears) were confirmed, and Tanner appeared at his elbow in an instant when he noticed.

"Sir? What's wrong?"

Gareth Mallory was unflappable. He didn't cower when a madman or three pointed their guns at him point blank, he was scared of next to nothing, including the Prime Minister and the bloody Queen of England. And in that instant he knew the news didn’t shock him just because James Bond was the best they had, but because he'd made the simplest of mistakes.

“We need to go back, now.”

Tanner nodded and hurried outside, calling their driver before he’d taken two steps, Mallory following at a more sedate pace, forcing himself to while he was still walking the halls of the ministry. It was one thing for politicians to see his Chief of Staff take off at a near-run, but the head of MI6’s 00 division could not afford making a spectacle of himself, no matter how much he may want to.

“We’ll be back in ten minutes,” Mallory addressed Moneypenny, who’d not said another word; likely because she didn’t have any more information for him other than the bare facts yet, anyway.

“I’ll try and gather more intel until you get here.”

“Can’t Q-Branch shed some light on the matter?” Mallory asked in a tone much too conversational for this kind of situation. Or, perhaps, it was the only thing that kept them all sane, inquiring about an agent in possibly mortal danger in the same tone others ordered their afternoon tea.

“They’re working to get him out, sir, I’d rather not interrupt with questions,” Moneypenny replied; and Mallory took a moment to imagine Q actually shouting orders for once. Mallory knew the man was perfectly capable of handling the situation, and yet...

This hadn't even been a high-risk operation, by 007 standards, which was why Mallory had taken the meeting with the Home Secretary; otherwise he'd have been in, _James wasn't supposed to get shot when he wasn't there_ — Mallory stopped himself there, standing on the steps outside and watching the car pull up. Getting into the backseat, he absently noted that his hands weren't shaking as he tucked his phone away, but it felt like they should be, and he only just resisted the impulse of tangling them together in his lap under Tanner's half-expectant, half-distressed gaze. (This wasn't good.)

It was another fourteen hours before Bond arrived in London.

* * *

 

Mallory didn’t go down to Medical, didn’t sit in a chair by 007’s bed until the agent woke up from the narcosis to find him asleep beside him like a sad excuse for a guardian angel. The head of the 00 department couldn’t do that, not even, especially not for James bloody Bond. But he had someone intimidate the nurses and doctors into calling him the second Bond so much as twitched. Which was why James was still blinking in slight confusion when the door opened with a dull thump and Mallory was there, unleashing all hell.

"Oh, good, you're awake." Bond wanted to point out that Mallory would hardly be there otherwise, but the expression on the man's face stayed his tongue. "Now that some time has passed, I finally know how this happened." Bond wanted to point out that that hadn't really been his fault, but, in a rare show of possibly drug-induced wisdom, remained silent. "What were you thinking, going after the target in that situation? You knew the operation was compromised, you knew! Your orders, your _standing_ orders in such a case are to move out and leave no trace you were ever there. Of all the reckless, idiotic --" Mallory interrupted himself, briefly looking away. Bond knew that, if they'd been in his office now, he would have thrown a bunch of files onto his desk or threatened to take Bond's eye out with an uncapped fountain pen. Now, he was holding himself stiffly, though no less authoritatively, his arms at his side, fists not quite clenching. "You may not give a shit about getting out of these scrapes alive, and perhaps that's what makes you the agent you are, combined with your blatant disregard of your orders, but you're no use to me _dead_. Have I made myself clear?"

Bond nodded. "Yes, sir."

Mallory drew a deep long breath before settling himself and asking, "How badly does it hurt?"

007’s eyebrows rose. “Is that sympathy I hear?” he drawled, already sounding remarkably like himself even when heavily medicated. Mallory countered the obnoxious teasing with a pointed glare from where he was standing at the foot of Bond’s bed.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in London, Mallory ground his teeth. "Remember what we talked about concerning your _fondness_ for getting shot, 007?"
> 
> Safe in the knowledge that M couldn't see his face, James smirked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it seems that folks were interested -- here's the second chapter! x

Six months later, Bond emerged from the burning remains of an arms facility somewhere in the desert and tapped his ear.

"Target neutralised, sir. Would you like me to pick up some flowers for you before I head back?" James could distinguish a strangled snort from the general clatter coming in over from Q-Branch. Q himself, probably, he seemed to find James' flirtatious remarks increasingly hilarious as time went on.

The recipient of these remarks, however, allowed himself no such obvious reaction.

"Job well done, 007, leave the greenery where it belongs," M replied steadily, "and don't make your extraction any more of a hassle than it's already going to be." (By which he meant, don't get into trouble and _don't get hurt_.) "The militia are helping us out on this one, but one wrong word from you and they might just change their minds."

James shrugged and tugged his sunglasses out of his jacket pocket. Realising that one of the hinges had broken, he made a face and threw them over his shoulder as he started walking. The hide-out was three miles away to the East. "And then they'll shoot me and you'll pull Hanson out and bring in another handler. The job's done."

Back in London, Mallory ground his teeth. "Remember what we talked about concerning your _fondness_ for getting shot, 007?"

Safe in the knowledge that M couldn't see his face, James smirked.

"I do, sir. I also remember my CO telling me that the mission's more important than my life."

"The mission, 007. Not your lack of propriety or common sense that leaves you with a bullet wound every time you run your mouth." Mallory's tone had sharpened against his will, but no-one (except maybe Q) paid him any mind. He was the head of the 00 division lecturing a stubborn agent, for fuck's sake. After M’s death, who had practically been Bond’s surrogate mother, Mallory had never expected easy acceptance from either 007 or James, but then had been left wondering just where he fit into the family metaphor.

Surely, Bond had never flirted this egregiously with his parents.

**FLASHBACK: ONE YEAR EARLIER**

Mallory had been so close to getting away with it.

Two years ago, he’d accused his predecessor of being sentimental about 007. Since then, they’d lost three 00-agents in the aftermath of Silva’s crazy schemes, and Bond had gone on operations all around the world that no-one dared call revenge, officially. The ferocity and relentlessness with which 007 hunted down every single one of the bastards that had dared touch someone from the division had surprised Mallory, at first. Following a closer look, it had made perfect sense.

Mallory had underestimated Bond’s loyalty — not to the cause. They had discussed the justness of a cause and the responsibility that came with it at length in his office one afternoon. Bond had conceded his pathetic love of country, but nothing more. Mallory had puzzled over this until it occurred to him that Bond wasn’t loyal to Her Majesty the Queen, the government, or Western democracy and civilisation. He was loyal to his family. He may not always follow his orders, may disagree with politics and ideology, but the outcome of his actions rarely ever served himself (besides keeping himself alive, barely). Mallory knew that giving Bond these missions only fuelled the fire, but he had seen the murderous determination roiling in Bond’s blue eyes and decided that there was no other way. He understood now that Bond had never looked to abstract ideals to do his job, but to people, people whose judgement he could trust, people who were worth fighting for.

_‘Hire me or fire me, it’s entirely up to you.’_

Two years ago, he’d told Bond not to cock it up, and he hadn’t. The next time he’d seen the agent had been at the hearing, pointing his gun at him. Then, Bond had _winked_ and shot the fire extinguisher instead — the rest was history. Mallory had felt the resentment coming off of Bond in waves when they’d first met, and he hadn’t expected much else after M’s death. What he hadn’t accounted for was the bullet he’d taken and that he’d helped luring Silva to Scotland. What he hadn’t accounted for was that he hadn’t told Q and Tanner to carry on merely because it had been their only option — but because he had believed that Bond could do it, and because he’d never actually wanted to oust M at all. What he hadn’t accounted for was that Bond _knew_ all of that. What he hadn’t accounted for was that it _mattered_.

He’d found himself trusting the agent who had turned up at Westminster like a spectre, covered in what Mallory would later learn were the remains of an old tube station. It shouldn’t have been possible for him to arrive just in time to save the day. And yet, there he’d been.

Mallory had half-expected Bond to refuse his authority, had, for a tense few days, even expected his resignation on his desk in the morning. But the resignation had never come, nor had the resentment. If Bond had trouble adjusting to a new boss, he expressed it via being a facetious ass, which was much more par for the course.

And then, Mallory had seen the jaw-clenching fury with which Bond had dispatched the mole who had leaked information that had nearly resulted in Mallory’s sudden demise, right in front of him.

Years ago down in Churchill’s bunker, Mallory had only seen the agent James Bond had once been, tired and out of the loop. At Westminster, something had _clicked_. He’d seen, clear as day, the agent that James Bond _was_. In his element, cleaned up, his eyes bright. It took him a long time to find the word he’d been looking for that day.

Devastating.

He was well aware that that was what had driven all of those men and women to do things they’d have never before considered to help James. Agents had to have that, these powers of persuasion, their licence to kill extended from their trigger finger to their charm. And for the longest time, he’d believed that that was all James Bond was, he’d made the simplest of mistakes: he’d believed the cover, of course he had, because all 007 had ever done was propagate that he didn’t _have_ one.

But then, he’d seen him broken and bloodied after Skyfall, barely able to look anyone from Six in the eye. Then, he’d seen him when he’d come back, after a ridiculously short mourning period of about a week. He’d handed him the first file, the first clean-up job to vanquish the mess that Silva had left behind. He’d seen his eyes harden, had seen his hands perfectly steady as he leafed through the pages. Mallory hadn’t said he was sorry, not before, not then. He didn’t think it would matter.

On his way out, Bond had turned to look at him, then glanced around the room appraisingly. “I like it,” he’d said, and try as he might, Mallory had detected no sarcasm, no acid in his voice. He’d been in earnest.

“Good,” was all he’d replied. Bond had nodded at him, then turned and left the room.

Normally, the agents’ meetings with Mallory were short, to the point. Not exactly perfunctory, but they knew what their brief was. Perhaps it was because 007 was the most experienced, perhaps it was because of things neither of them would talk about, but he stayed. At first, Mallory had been mildly confused when Eve had set the next appointment for 11am when he’d thought she’d push it to 3pm, right before his meeting with the PM, so he could work through the morning instead of being interrupted.

Bond had stayed for over an hour. And he’d always come back.

Until today. Two years after Skyfall, the clean-up missions were done, and Mallory would have to start assigning Bond to other cases. The trouble was that he wasn’t sure if Bond would stay, this time. He’d had his revenge, had taken out the people responsible for M’s death. Mallory knew that he’d done something like this before — Vesper Lynd. He’d finished the job and come back to work. But that had been a few weeks, this had taken years. Years trapped in anger and thirst for blood, and Mallory couldn’t shake the thought that, this time, Bond would pack it in.

He didn’t like the idea. At all.

The night before, he’d slept badly for no apparent reason, and now, he was tense in his office chair, realising that he’d just read the same case report twice over and still couldn’t make sense of it. He pushed the file away with a huff when the intercom came on.

“Sir, 007 is here to see you,” Eve informed him. Mallory counted to three before pushing the button.

“Send him in.”

When Bond stepped through the door, their eyes locked immediately. Mallory forced himself not to look away.

“Morning, sir.”

“Have a seat, 007.”

Bond nodded and sat in one of their chairs across the desk. Mallory tapped his fingers on the surface of his desk for a moment while taking in Bond’s expression. As per usual, he gave nothing away.

“007, you know that with Operation Swannfield, the last of Silva’s operations has been dismantled.”

“I’m aware.”

“This means that, from now on, I will be assigning you to one of the other cases currently demanding MI6’s attention.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mallory paused. “That’s it?”

Finally, Bond’s expression changed: he smirked. “I’m not going anywhere, M, except where you tell me to. Have for the past two years, you haven’t steered me wrong.”

“I wasn’t under the impression that it had anything to do with me,” Mallory replied before he could think better of it.

Bond’s smirk shifted into something more serious, but remnants of a smile lingered in the corners of his mouth. “I would’ve left two years ago if I’d wanted to. This isn’t about... her. Not anymore.”

Right then, M could think of only one thing to say: “I never said I was sorry. But I am.”

Bond looked down at his hands for a moment. “I appreciate that, sir.”

The meeting wrapped up quickly after that, for a change. Bond had to go and see Q to bring himself up to date on all the details, and Mallory had to go through that case report. Again. After Bond had left, Mallory leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath, trying to rationalise the relief that was flooding through him.

The Service hadn’t lost its best agent.

And Mallory hadn’t lost... someone important.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath as he acknowledged his relief for what it was. It wasn’t just that MI6 wasn’t ready to part with 007 — he wasn’t ready to part with James. Slowly, quietly, through hours spent talking in his office, Mallory in his chair and Bond leaning against the window sill, and hours spent barking orders into Bond’s earpiece, a connection had formed that took him completely by surprise. (But then, not really.)

Mallory knew he couldn’t allow himself that kind of thinking, not now that Bond was staying on. Sentiment had only served to force Bond back to Skyfall. So he wouldn’t think like that.

A few weeks after that, Bond had been shot.

Following Bond’s recovery from that unfortunate incident, he had waltzed into Mallory’s office, grinning.

“Missed me, darling?”

Mallory raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you getting me confused with Miss Moneypenny, 007?”

Bond’s grin slipped into a smirk. “But, sir, you’re the only one for me.”

_Oh, no._

**END FLASHBACK**


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the formatting issues here, google docs is being a bit of a twat with Pages at the moment.

It hadn't even been _like_ that. Or perhaps it had and they’d just taken a detour, only to end up right where they’d started out. They were both forces of nature, and although Bond liked to parade it around while Mallory let it simmer just below the surface, of course they were _aware_ of each other, how could they not? But then, they’d become the sort of... friends who joined Tanner for lunch every once in a while. Mallory refused to call their arguments about procedure ‘bickering,’ but judging by Q’s incredulous expression, that was probably exactly what it was.

Mallory had thought that Bond just had to get it out of his system, teasing him for the way he’d reacted to him getting shot. But in the six months between then and now, the teasing had just never bloody stopped.

* * *

James had had quite a bit of time to think while his leg healed and, during that time, he’d come to a few conclusions.

One: physical attraction and affection complemented each other even more nicely than physical attraction and absolute loathing.

Two: he was never going to re-write his will shortly before a mission again, that sort of thing just invited bad luck.

He’d also decided that holding back wasn’t his style.

The stab of panic he had felt when Tanner had told him that there might be a mole in MI6 who had sold information that could serve to stage an attempt on Mallory’s life about a year into the post-Skyfall operations had been the first signs of something he couldn’t have anticipated and now, months and months after that, still wasn’t entirely sure he should want. But want it, he did.

At first, he’d told himself that he just hadn’t wanted to lose another division head on his watch. Then, he’d told himself that he just hadn’t wanted to lose another M he could trust and who let him work the way he needed to. Eventually, he had nearly killed the person responsible right before Mallory’s eyes, would have killed them if the man himself hadn’t barked at him that they needed the suspect alive to question them. Only that had stayed his arm, that and a hand gripping his shoulder, pulling him back.

If he’d still been seeing the shrink assigned to him for a while after M’s death, they’d have told him that he’d been projecting his grief over losing one onto the other M -- or so James had tried to convince himself. Much more likely was that they’d have taken one good look at his clenched fists and his ticking jaw and recommended that he stop forming strong emotional attachments to his superiors.

James needed to understand the person who sent him to his death. He wasn’t interested in what the PM thought, or the Minister of Defence; he didn’t care which interpretation of democracy was avantgarde at the moment. He was familiar with the philosophy behind notions of society and politics, and they weren’t any good to him in the field, he’d learnt that early on. (Neither were his feelings, but he had also learnt that he’d just have to live with those, like it or not.) What he needed was to know the one who assigned him to a brief, told him where to be when and try not to get himself killed, but also wouldn’t hesitate to abandon him if the situation got too complicated.

After Skyfall, after _Westminster_ , Bond had known that he’d been wrong about Gareth Mallory, spectacularly so. While working for two years to mop up the dirt left by Silva’s organisations all over the globe, after being caged in by his conflicting desires, to get revenge on the one hand and an exhausted wish to just let go, move on, on the other hand, he had realised that he wasn’t the only one slowly being eaten away at. Mallory had been right behind him through it all, had driven himself equally resolutely to ensure that every single one of Silva’s henchmen was captured alive or delivered in a coffin, had defended what they were doing in countless sessions with the PM and Parliament. He’d struggled with the implications of revenge, same as James, had said so to him once, regarding him with tired eyes after a hearing at Westminster, having sat in the exact spot that M had been in once. James had leaned back against the window sill and replied that, “She’d have slapped us both across the face for doing this. And yet, here we are.”

Somewhere in the middle, James had decided that Mallory was worth staying, not the cause.

Six months ago, when Mallory had appeared in Medical and started yelling at him, James had decided that he really wasn’t projecting anything, but that any psychiatrist _would_ tell him to get the hell out. He didn’t budge an inch. If anything, he started pushing.

He started bringing people back alive that he normally would have seen as collateral and left for dead, for agents to question and for Mallory to inform the PM about. He started asking Mallory questions about his past, about Ireland, pushing and pushing until he hit the point where Mallory told him to mind his own business and get to work (about three questions later than he should have done so).

He started flirting. Most of the time, Mallory would simply ignore it and go on speaking as if he hadn’t heard. Sometimes, he deadpanned a dismissive reply that left James smirking and wheedling further. And very, very rarely, he’d scowl and say, “Congratulations on finding the most inappropriate thing possible to say, 007.”

The thing was, Mallory never told him to stop. James knew that Gareth knew that, if he did, James wouldn’t stop asking why until they’d arrived at how their understanding of each other had changed, what that meant, and why it meant anything in the first place, considering that most of MI6 would attest to the fact that ‘flirt’ was basically 007’s default response to anything, including the zombie apocalypse. They weren’t ready for either of them to force that conversation.

So he asked Mallory whether he’d prefer flowers or chocolate when a job was done, told him he should come to Zürich to join him for dinner. Mallory griped at him, told him to stuff it, or said nothing at all, ordered Tanner not to let Bond near the mission files again unless he came back with notes more useful than restaurant suggestions. (James did take proper notes for the other agents, but he emailed those to them himself, giving Tanner only the ones meant for M.) Tanner, Q, and Eve had reminded him numerous times that he was an idiot and a bit of a twit, but he’d seen the exasperated look Bill had given Mallory that one time in his office, after James had walked in and complimented his tie and Mallory had gone on dictating his schedule changes as if he hadn’t heard.

* * *

Eight months after he’d got shot, Bond was sitting in a bar in Hong Kong, waiting for his contact.

“Remember, 007, she’s likely going to try and clone your phone, so keep running interference through your watch.”

“Got it, Q.”

Mallory stood a little off to the side, watching the Quartermaster type endless sequences of code until the screen up on the wall split and a window opened, showing the live feed from the bar. He suppressed a wince as he saw the cuts and bruises already littering Bond’s face, all from a run-in with a Bolivian operative hours earlier. “Bond, you’re not going to gain her trust with that mug.”

“Well, I thought you might like it, sir,” came the insolent reply and Mallory only just resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Focus, 007,” was all he said -- and all he had time to say, for Bond’s contact chose that exact moment to slide into the seat next to him.

Half an hour later, Mallory didn’t know whether he should be impressed or nauseated by the ease with which Bond had built a rapport with Jenna Maxwell, the American agent, who clearly had been hand-picked for the job by Felix Leiter -- who had most likely told her to leave 007’s phone alone. She didn’t, tried cloning it anyway, and nearly succeeded, but Bond touched the EMP transmitter on his watch just in time to block her signal. Mallory liked her instantly. As often as he told Bond not to stick his nose into things that were beyond his brief, he appreciated agents who formed their own opinions -- and there were definitely several opinions to be had about one Commander Bond.

He was just about to settle in and lean against Q’s desk when a sudden turn in conversation almost made him jump.

“I hope you’re not looking for such an adventure with me, 007,” Maxwell remarked just as Bond was ordering another round for them.

“Not your type?” 007 guessed with a tilt of his head.

Mallory watched her shake her head.

“Stiff-assed Brit?” Bond asked sarcastically.

“Reckless dumbass,” came the prompt reply.

“And here I thought I just wasn’t handsome enough for you,” Bond countered cheerfully. Before Jenna could get a word in, he continued, “but, as it is, I’m already taken, anyway.”

Mallory saw Q and Tanner exchange a perplexed glance out of the corner of his eye. He also saw them flicking their eyes towards him for a second, but he carried on watching the camera feed as if he hadn’t noticed. 

“Oh, really? Who is the unlucky woman?”

“It’s a very lucky man, actually.” Q and Tanner perked up visibly and Mallory’s stomach dropped. _He wouldn’t_. “He’s a few years older than me, if you can believe it, but it doesn’t show. Always tells me to be careful, feels like we’re married already.”

“Did you tell him what you do?” Disbelief coloured Jenna’s voice.

“What? No, I told him I work for Universal Exports and travel a lot.”

“And how do you explain these?” she gestured to the cuts and bruises.

“I don’t.” At the other agent’s scoff, he shrugged. “I said I haven’t told him, I didn’t say I’m not letting him draw his own conclusions.”

Jenna eyed him from the side. “You must trust him a lot, then.”

Bond shrugged again -- not dismissively, but as if that were a simple fact of life. “I do.” Tanner and Q exchanged another set of looks, both seeming to struggle with a mixture of bewilderment and amusement.

“What’s he like?”

“He’s... I think he’d expect me to say ‘the opposite of me,’ but he’s not, not entirely. Sure, he generally uses words where I use a gun, but he knows exactly what he wants, and he knows how to get it.” Mallory’s shoulders tensed at the tone in Bond’s voice -- softer, almost... reverent -- and reminded himself that the man was an excellent actor when he wanted to be. “You can’t get anything past him. I might be the one getting shot at, but he doesn’t exactly have an easy job, either, and I can see it weighing on him sometimes. I have to admit, I didn’t think much of him when I first met him, but... he surprised me. Still does, on occasion.” The smile was obvious in Bond’s voice, and Mallory instinctively knew he was thinking of Westminster, obviously, and then that time two weeks before, when Mallory had given the director of the BND such a dressing-down that Tanner had fumbled with his pen. The corners of his own mouth twitched as he remembered the delighted look on James’ face.

“If he’s still with you even though you regularly come home looking like that, he must _really_ like you,” Jenna remarked.

“Last time I came back with more... conspicuous injuries, he yelled at me for about fifteen minutes and threatened me with a long, relaxing vacation.”

“Has he followed through on that?”

“Not yet, but I think he just might after this one. And, well, I wouldn’t mind two weeks, or three, in bed.”

Tanner finally lost the fight and let out a snort, which promptly sent Q into a small fit of carefully suppressed laughter. All the while, Mallory actually felt a blush creeping up his neck.

“Oh, I bet you don’t,” he heard Maxwell’s reply as though from a long distance away before he could snap himself out of it and do what he should have done as soon as Bond had embarked on this ridiculous tale.

“Bond, cut it out,” he ordered.

After the meet finished, Bond walked back to his hotel while Q was chattering in his ear about what he had found out using the data Jenna had given them. When the Quartermaster was done, they heard Bond let out a breath.

“Sounds like it’s going to be a bit delicate infiltrating them, then.”

“Oh, you know how it works, 007. Don’t push it, screw it in,” Mallory spat into the comms. He let himself enjoy the silence at the other end of the line for a moment. (He also enjoyed Tanner actually dropping his pen this time, but that was another matter.) “Get back to your room and try not to make any more trouble tonight. Check back in at 7am sharp.”

“Alright. Anything else?” Bond asked, aiming for innocent, but it came out sounding smug. Mallory scowled.

“We’ll talk about your absurd idea of inventing cover stories on the spot when you get back.”

“Yes, sir.” That didn’t sound any more contrite, so Mallory irritably pressed the button on the comm unit and muted his own earpiece, leaving Tanner and Q to deal with 007. Then, he left Q-Branch without another word.

In his office, he poured himself a brandy and wondered if he was so angry because Bond had endangered a mission by talking nonsense to an operative they didn’t know if they could trust, or because James had taken something real and exposed it as a farce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference: the idea “married to M” and “Don’t push it in, screw it in” comes right out of Ian Fleming’s _Diamonds are Forever_.


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is it, then, the final chapter! Thanks to everyone for reading and commenting, it means the world! I hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it. :)

James wasn’t entirely sure what to expect when he returned to Vauxhall Cross after Hong Kong. When Tanner told him that Mallory wanted to see him after his debrief with Q, James felt a mixture of anticipation and dread that only served to remind him how terribly wrong this could go.

Stepping into Mallory’s office, he nearly sucked in a sharp breath as he saw M standing by the window, a cup of coffee in his hand (James knew how he took it at this time of day). He almost always looked neat and buttoned up, but it seemed as though today, Mallory had taken special care with the choice of his three-piece suit. The lines were sharp, the colours dark, the only splash of colour a dark blue tie. For James, who had seen him with his shirtsleeves rolled up and his braces shifting with the movements of his back, this was a clear signal, together with the added distance by standing near the window. And he never could resist a keep-out sign.

That was, until he got closer and saw the look on Mallory’s face. He had expected anger, but not—

“Take a seat, 007, we don’t have all day.” His voice was cold.

Caught off guard, James sat in one of the chairs at the desk at an angle, his eyes never leaving Mallory’s face. “M, if this is about what I told Agent Maxwell, I—”

“Well done, 007, that is precisely what this is about.” M’s eyes glittered with something dangerously close to malice and James felt his heartbeat quicken. “I thought I’d seen every stupid stunt you were willing to pull in going beyond your brief, but that... of all the moronic things to do to endanger an operation. How dare you spout such nonsense to an operative who you haven’t even known for half an hour?”

“She’s Felix’s agent!” Bond rallied to defend himself.

“So?” Mallory shot back. “And how sure were you about Mathis _not_ being your friend?”

Bond ground his teeth, but remained silent.

“And not only that, you made a farce of it! You could have told her anything, you _should_ have told her nothing at all, and then you dare to—” Mallory cut himself off, refusing to say too much, to let this become about anything but the mission.

“Dare to what?” Bond immediately jumped in. He narrowed his eyes at the other man, trying to figure out what he was missing. “Go on, tell me what I’ve done wrong!”

“You dared to use _me_!” Mallory snapped, his face suddenly betraying so much fury that James nearly reared back in his seat. “You knew that I was listening, you knew just what to say so I’d know you were talking about me, and you knew just how to make it terribly funny for anyone else who was there to hear it!”

For a moment, James could only blink at him. “You — you’re upset. You’re not just angry with me, you’re — you thought I was joking.”

“And you have a terrible sense of humour, 007, but I’m sure you knew that. Now, if you would kindly leave my office, I have matters to attend to.” Mallory gestured towards the door behind James.

“No.”

“What?”

“No, I’m not leaving, because—”

“007, leave now, that’s an order—”

“—I won’t let you pretend this isn’t about us! I won’t let you pretend you didn’t hear any of that.” With that, James jumped up and stepped towards Mallory. “I didn’t plan for it to happen, I... I wanted to wait until it came up, but it never did. I saw a chance, and I took it. I knew you’d be angry with me, but I can’t regret it because now it’s finally on the table. I wasn’t trying to provide Bill and Q with some comic relief, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I meant every word just as I said.” He took another step forward, trying to gauge Mallory’s expression, which shifted from infuriated to supremely annoyed with next to no warning.

“We are _not_ almost married, 007.”

“We could be.”

“Bond,” Mallory as good as growled in warning, and James tried not to let on how much he enjoyed that sound. “This is not up for discussion.”

“Why not?” James inched even closer until he was almost in Mallory’s space. “We’ve come to know each other so well, you can’t tell me this isn’t real.”

“What’s real is that you’re a troublemaker,” Mallory countered and lifted his free hand to point his index finger at James in an accusatory gesture.

“You could’ve told me to stop,” James reminded him, his voice dropping to a teasing murmur that he knew for a fact could calm Mallory down even when he was railing at the director of the CIA. And indeed, Mallory seemed to lose some of the tension in his lean frame as he leaned closer to him. “But you didn’t want to, did you?”

Mallory sighed. “Bond... James, we can’t be doing this.”

“What, arguing in your office? I daresay we’ve done that often enough before.”

“You know what I mean. What you want us to do, to be, we can’t—”

“Why not? We practically already are!”

“No, we’re not! Don't you see what this is going to do to us if we let it actually happen? Don't you care about the consequences, for us, for the Service? What if you die out there and it's my fault? What if I make the wrong decision and other people die?”

“I won't let that happen. I know that you'll always do what’s necessary. The rest is on me.”

“We can’t pretend... we are who we are, James. And what if I were in danger? If Skyfall has shown us anything—”

“I'm in danger every time I leave this building, but not you. The one time that someone got to you, I'd get to them first and take them out, whatever the cost.”

“That's not fair. You can't break the rules and expect me not to.”

“But that's who we are.” James nearly had to smile at the turn of phrase. “We’ve been who we are together for nearly four years now, Gareth. This, whatever it’s become over time, started at Westminster. You’re already worried about me, and I already walk the Earth for you.” Carefully, Bond reached out to smooth his hand over the lapel of Mallory’s suit, just once.

The other man shook his head, his expression pained. “I can't, James, I can't.”

“Look, if you tell me to leave now, I will. But this is right, you know it is.”

Mallory bowed his head a little, so close that James could feel his breath on his cheek. The silence between them stretched, stretched until Mallory shook his head minutely. “Please leave, James. Go. _Please_.” James drew breath to say something, but Gareth beat him to it. He raised his head and looked James straight in the eye, his gaze determined. “We’ll never speak of this again.”

* * *

James had looked ready to argue, had reached out his hand again as if to grip his shoulder; but then he’d closed his mouth and taken a step back from him, two, three; his expression slipping into a mask that he hadn't seen in a long time (at least when they were alone). Gareth had already missed his closeness then. (This was precisely why he’d never allowed it before.)

“In that case, I’d like to request two weeks’ leave, sir. Hong Kong was a long case. It’s relatively quiet at the moment, so I think I should go and... relax a bit.”

“Of course, that... that might be a good idea. Clear the details with Miss Moneypenny and Tanner, and make sure to leave the address so we can find you.”

“Of course.” James’ gaze had drifted to somewhere just above his shoulder.

“You’re dismissed, 007,” he’d brought himself to say. “And enjoy your holiday. You’ve earned it.”

“Thank you, sir.” With that, James had turned and left the office without another word, leaving him with his cup of coffee forgotten in his hand and a heavy weight settling on his chest.

Five days later, Mallory was certain he’d done the right thing. He was also absolutely sure that he’d made a spectacular mistake.

He also didn’t know where James had gone, who he had gone with (which seemed a spiteful thing to think, but there it was, nagging at him), and whether he would actually be back in ten days. He didn’t do anything to find out.

Eight days after he’d last seen James, Mallory came back from an especially unnerving meeting with the Prime Minister. He asked Eve to field all of his calls for the next hour, unless the Earth decided to tilt off its axis unnecessarily. She nodded and gave him a small smile. He knew that she knew.

It appeared that she was not the only one, however. When he approached his desk, he saw a folded note lying on top of a few files. Hesitantly, he picked it up and opened it. Inside, he saw two distinct samples of handwriting. At the top, in what was definitely Q’s slightly messy script: an address in Basel, P.S.: ‘He’s alone.’ Below, he recognised Tanner’s writing: ‘Your schedule for the next 48 hours can be cleared at your earliest convenience. The office will only call should Big Ben decide to miscount again.’

It took Mallory two more days to pack a bag.

* * *

James didn't even go outside unless he needed food. The rest of the time, he congratulated himself on a job well done. He repeated the words he'd said to Gareth in his head over and over until his head hurt like hell. The last time he'd let his mouth run away with him like that... He didn't regret saying it, didn't regret exposing himself like that, no matter how bitterly the rejection stung. He'd had to know. At least now he had his answer.

He wouldn't insult Gareth by drinking himself to death in Basel. He lived as he generally would on a week off. He hadn't packed a razor, and with ten days worth of stubble, he started to look like someone he'd once been, before. He rubbed his hand across his cheek and decided he would shave before he went back.

Was he going back?

He wondered if Mallory was expecting his resignation. Would he accept it?

He was about to spread some butter on the toast he'd been making when a knock sounded on the door. Checking that his gun was lying within easy reach in an alcove in the hallway, he went to see who it was. His breath caught when he looked through the spyhole.

He stood stockstill for more than ten seconds, unsure what to do. _Well, open the bloody door_ , his mind supplied helpfully. Shaking himself out of it, he did.

When their eyes met and he got a real look at Gareth's face, he frowned.

"You look terrible." He winced. "I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"No, you're right."

James wanted to ask how he'd found him, but he knew who'd told him. What he really wanted to know was whether he'd asked Q for his address or if—

"I was told I'd find you here."

Ah. James felt his shoulders want to slump, even though he didn't let them.

"What do you want?" he asked, refusing to notice how his voice had gone flat and how his face probably looked sullen and stand-offish. Why did he have to turn up here? James had just needed a few more days, and then...

"Seeing as it's seven in the morning, breakfast might be nice. That is to say, can I come in?"

James stepped aside and opened the door further.

"Do your neighbours know you're dangerous even when you're only in your boxers and a t-shirt?" Mallory asked as he walked through the hall and found the kitchen, drawn to it by the scent of expensive coffee. James followed after him, letting his eyes roam over him. M was wearing next to nothing compared to their last encounter: slacks, and a light blue shirt underneath a summer coat, his red braces peeking out when he turned around to face James at the counter and put his hands into his trouser pockets. James had indeed been right, he looked tired.

"I wasn't going to do this, I wasn't... I didn't think you'd wanted to see me." He broke off and chanced a glance at James. When he seemed content to wait him out, he continued, "I thought we should best discuss this when you got back, but I couldn't stop thinking you might not return. So now," he gestured at the room vaguely, "I'm here to make sure you do."

"And how are you planning to do that?"

"By asking you to do your job, because the firm needs you. And," he quickly added, stalling James' irascible reply by lifting his hand towards him, "by asking you to come back to me, because I need you, too."

James stared at Gareth, disbelief warring with hope. "And just what do you mean when you say you need me?" he managed to ask.

Mallory stepped closer to him. "I mean that I'm not sorry for telling you I didn't think I could be with you when I did, because that was the truth, then. I was still so angry, I couldn't _think_. It wasn't the right time to make any sort of decision."

"But you did."

"And that's what I am sorry for. I should've told you I needed time instead of... making it sound so final."

James felt his innards jump and warmth bloom somewhere in the middle. Felt a lot like getting shot.

Gareth shrugged a little helplessly, as if saying, here we are, then. "For what it's worth now, I like being almost married to you." A small smile played on his lips, his eyes fixed on James' face, waiting for his reaction.

In all honesty, James didn't know what to do with himself, so he went for the most obvious solution: he closed the distance between them, grasped the lapels of Gareth's coat in his hands and pulled him towards himself. "Please tell me that means I can kiss you now."

The smile widened. "I do believe it does."

With a small sigh he wasn't even aware he'd made, James leaned forward and pressed their lips together.

Gareth felt as though he could breathe unhindered for the first time since James had left his office. Sucking in a deep breath through his nose (coffee, toast, and above all James, the soap he used and just him, the same scent wherever he was), Gareth moved his hands to James' waist and tugged. He briefly broke the kiss only to slide his lips against James' a second later, pressing even closer just because he could. He could feel his breath and heart rate quicken even as his awareness of the world around them seemed to dim, his focus narrowing down to the way James nipped at his lower lip with his teeth.

Suddenly, James pulled away and nuzzled his neck with his nose, leaning against him. "Please tell me this is really happening."

Mallory slid his arms around James' back, his hands gently caressing him. "It's as real as it gets, James."

"Will you stay?"

"I have 48 hours, apparently." Gareth made a mental note to thank Tanner and Q properly when they got back. "I'll leave on Wednesday and then wait for you."

"I could come back with you early," James murmured into his skin just above the collar of his shirt.

"No, you deserve your rest."

He could feel James smirk. "After you're through with me, you mean?"

Mallory suppressed a groan. "James, for the love of queen and country!"

James bumped his nose against Mallory's jaw like an overgrown cat. "What about queen and country, by the way?"

Gareth's fingers unconsciously tightened their grip on James' shirt. "We'll just have to try and not cock it up." He smiled when James grinned at the expression and the memory. "You were right. I spent days thinking about what would actually change if we did this." He paused for effect. "Nothing at all. We're already complete idiots."

James' grin brightened. "I'd never thought I'd hear—"

"You of course being the bigger idiot of the two of us," Mallory interrupted him.

James shrugged. "Fair enough." His gaze dropped to Gareth's mouth again. "As much as I enjoy discussing this with you—"

Gareth cut him off by sealing their lips together.

Toast and coffee were forgotten as James started herding them backwards in the direction of the bedroom. “Please,” he muttered against Gareth’s lips, and he didn’t care that he was pleading, pleading not to be denied now. Mallory reassured him by tracing his lower lip with his tongue and deepening the kiss when James’ mouth parted, his arms tightening around his torso. James started tugging at Gareth’s coat. There were way too many clothes in the way, and he wasn’t even wearing socks.

Whatever would become of him, James would never forget a second of what happened next. He’d never forget undoing the buttons of Mallory’s trousers and cupping his half-hard cock through his pants, never forget Gareth ducking his head to bite at his collarbone as soon as his t-shirt was off, his hands roving over his skin, caressing, holding on... As soon as their clothes were strewn on the floor around them, James half fell onto the bed, half pulled Mallory with him, who braced himself up on his arms above him. James arched up and felt only bliss coursing through him when their erections slid against each other. So long he’d waited for this, so long...

Gareth cupped his cheek with his hand and he instinctively turned into the touch, closing his eyes, arching his hips again and again until they both groaned. Gareth pressed his hips down as James bucked up, then, and gasped. He bent his head to kiss James, sucking on his lower lip until the agent made a sound so close to a whimper that he had to pull back, his mind reeling. He saw only James underneath him, a delicious blush spreading from his neck up. His senses were alight, his nerves tingling with every bit of friction their shifting bodies conjured up. James hitched up a leg and hooked it over his hip, drawing him closer, throwing his head back into the covers as Gareth moaned his approval.

“Who knew,” James murmured as he watched Gareth biting his lip.

“Know what?”

“If I’d known that stupidly flirting with you would get me here, I’d've done that years ago.”

Gareth smiled around the hitch in his breath as he rocked his groin against James’. “No, you wouldn’t have. You wouldn’t have known what to do with yourself.”

“I would’ve learnt,” James whispered as he wrapped a hand around his neck and pulled him down into a kiss. The movement brought their chests together and after a moment, Mallory gave in and shifted to rest on his elbows, aligning their bodies so they were flush against each other. He thrust his hips against James’, back and forth, giving their breaths a rhythm to follow.

“I’m not... oh, God... this isn’t going to last long,” he growled as their movements sped up, heat pooling in the pit of his stomach. He drove his hips deeper into James’, then gave a strangled yell when James’ hands suddenly grasped his buttocks and hauled him even closer. James stretched underneath him, arching his back, and his hand slipped from his jaw to his neck, where he could feel his pulse racing, beating like a drum against his skin. He brushed his thumb over the sensitised skin, wished he had the time and the patience to pull away, to explore James’ body with his mouth and his tongue, making him a writhing mess before allowing him to come.

“Don’t you dare,” James grunted as if reading his thoughts, and Mallory realised he must have said it out loud. “You can, ah... you can do all of that later, please, please do it, but now I just... please.” His hands clenched on Gareth’s arse as he snapped up his hips again and again. “Please,” he breathed. Mallory bent down to plant open-mouthed kisses along James’ jaw, the stubble soothing an itch he hadn’t known he felt. “Then come, James, now, come for me,” he whispered, feverish with the thought; and as he felt James’ breath catch in his throat, he tumbled over the edge himself. Their wordless shouts echoed in the room as they climaxed, their seed spurting over their stomachs.

They collapsed into each other, mindless of the sticky mess between them for the moment, breathing heavy and deep. James’ fingers were gently tracing Mallory’s spine, his movements light and slow, as if he didn’t know he was doing it. Gareth nuzzled his nose into the crook of his neck, his mussed hair falling against James’ cheek and ear.

They did manage to clean themselves up a short while later. After James returned from the bathroom, he slid into bed next to Gareth and moulded himself against his back, kissing his shoulder.

“I remember you saying something about breakfast when you came in,” he murmured, brushing his nose against the hair at the nape of Gareth’s neck. Gareth, keeping his eyes closed, reached back, searching, and grasped his hand, twining their fingers together.

“I may have lied about being hungry.”

James squeezed his hand. “You sneaked your way into my holiday home under false pretences?” He pressed a kiss to a spot just behind Mallory’s ear. “Good.”

Together, they dozed through the morning.

* * *

**Epilogue**

When Mallory returned to London, it was with an obscene hickey just below the collar of his shirt and a promise. His first steps at Whitehall lead him down to Q-Branch, where he found Q and conveniently Tanner and Eve bent over a map of the Pacific Ocean and a bunch of files. They straightened as they heard him enter, the expressions on their faces ranging from nervous expectation to uncertainty.

“Good morning, sir,” Tanner greeted him, the other two echoing him more quietly.

“Good morning,” he returned the greeting, and they seemed to relax minutely when they heard the friendly tone in his voice. He stepped up to the desk. “You just couldn’t let it pass, could you?” he addressed Tanner, not unkindly. His Chief of Staff swallowed, but stood his ground.

“He’s my best friend, sir.”

Mallory nodded. “Fair enough.” He smiled at them before turning on his heel. “Return to your work. Tanner, my office, half an hour. I have a schedule to reorganise.”

“Sir.”

Three days later, Bond stepped into M’s office, a smiling Moneypenny turning back to her computer behind him.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, 007.”

(They’d said their good morning-s as James and Gareth hours before, in Mallory’s bed.)

“Lots to do, 007. Are you ready to get back to work?”

“With pleasure, M. With pleasure.”


End file.
